


for a better run, pile your clothes

by petalloso



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Blood and Violence, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Secret Identity Fail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24205981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petalloso/pseuds/petalloso
Summary: Richie liked the thrill of knowing he had beenjustfast enough, the skim of air at a barely missed strike. He liked egging them on, a matador of the violent.Mostly though he liked the way Eddie made him feel, like he was nursing a broken heart before he could ever work up the nerve to confess and have it broken in the first place. And maybe that was fucked up but it was more than that, too. Eddie was wicked smart, stupid hot, brave and beautiful, and sometimes Richie looked at him and he was already looking back and Richie thoughtmaybe. And then Eddie would bite his lip and look away and Richie would thinkno.(Vigilantes by night, best friends by day, Richie and Eddie are in love with both versions of each other)
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 25
Kudos: 113





	for a better run, pile your clothes

**Author's Note:**

> listen i know this is an outrageous, frankly absurd au but… :} 
> 
> for smoother reading purposes  
> Eddie: Genesis  
> Richie: Vex 
> 
> if it’s frustratingly vague what each ability is skip to the end notes for clarification! 
> 
> i’m on [tumblr](https://petalloso.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/freidegg) as always thank you for reading 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS PLS HEED: violence, blood & injury, brief mentions of drug usage, moral ambiguity involving crime/punishment, Eddie in Crisis Mode

His lip is split bright red and there is a blossoming bruise on his chin, that ruddy pink before purple. The move that put it there was reckless. Everything Vex did was reckless, because he could sense every movement, beat of the heart and slight of breath, but still insisted he had to keep it interesting, else the gig would get old fast.

He had Eddie’s heart perpetually in his throat, tossing himself onto the bad guys like the sheer weight of his clumsy ass square body and the will of his stupid freaking supersensing head were enough to beat them. And most of the time it worked. Still Eddie prods at his scruffy chin with one finger. 

Vex slaps his hand away with a floppy half-eaten churro. “Dude, that hurts.” 

Eddie frowns at him. But Vex can’t actually see the disapproving shape of his mouth beneath the fabric of his mask, so he also scrunches his brows with the most exaggeration he can muster, and slaps Vex’s hand away when he prods between them in retaliation. 

“Why do you insist on fighting crime like a reject mutant ninja turtle? 

“Creative,” Vex says appreciatively. “Props. I’m actually a big fan of the franchise. The rat reminds me of Matty.” 

“I’m being serious.” 

Vex shrugs, boxy wide shoulders shifting beneath the dark fabric of his hoodie. They should really invest in something more substantial, because it provided nil padding and his own bruised ribs beneath a matching hoodie could attest. 

“I’ve got you watching my back.” 

“That’s a lousy fucking excuse.” 

Vex takes another bite of his churro and gets cinnamon sugar all over his lips. He eats like a little kid, which was infuriating as was everything else about him. Eddie watches him lick it off, tongue over the split in his lip and mouth shiny with spit. Involuntarily, he frowns harder. 

“Why are you so wired up tonight?”

Because. He hated when Vex got hurt for no other reason than his own carelessness. And he didn’t think that was a terribly unwarranted thing to be upset about. He takes a heaving breath and readjusts so his heart settles back where it should be between his ribs, but when he speaks his voice is pitched too low and it makes him all-too-obvious. 

“I just think you should be more careful.” 

He watches Vex soften like when some neighborhood kid asks for help getting their cat out of a tree. He kicks his combat-boot-clad feet where they dangle over the rooftop edge and leans back to peer at Eddie through his mask, eyes hidden beneath the thin fabric but lips pursed in thought. 

Eddie does _not_ lean over to tie his shoelaces or tuck the hem of his pants back into his boots. But he marks both down as just more validity to his argument. 

“I can do that,” Vex says at length. “If it helped you ease up a little. Your hot little body is _tense,_ my dude. You want a massage? I’m good with my hands.” He makes an exaggerated grabby motion with one of them. 

“No thank you,” Eddie says. Even though his body sort of craved a soft touch. And he really wouldn’t mind the knots kneaded out of him. And even though Vex was making a dumb joke he probably _was_ good with his hands beneath the leather of his gloves. 

Vex laughs and takes another bite of his churro. “Something else is bothering you.” 

“What?”

“You’re a terrible liar, Gen.” 

“If that was true my real name would be all over the news already. It’s unprofessional to use your powers on me.” 

“You know I don’t. Besides I don’t need to– it’s written all over half your face.” 

Eddie scoffs but it sounds more like an evasion. He should be better at feigning ignorance but Vex could probably tell he was lying if he really wanted to. 

“So?” Vex nudges him in that annoying-eyebrow-raise type way. Too bad Eddie can’t see his face beyond the fast talking cinnamon sugar dusted smirk, or he would flick him right between those smirky eyebrows too. 

“So what?” 

“Who is it?” 

“I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.” 

“Don’t make me pry it out of you. I know I’ve got superhuman strength and all–” He does not. “But I’m feeling rightfully lazy after all our hard work today.” 

“I’m not saying anything,” Eddie says, resolute. 

“And why not?” 

“Because,” Eddie pauses. “It isn’t allowed.” 

“Christ,” Vex deflates. “Maturin is dead, Genny. We’re basically operating as lawless vigilantes now. I don’t actually give a fuck if you know who I am.” 

“The only reason this isn’t more dangerous than it already is is because we keep things like they were supposed to be. You know that.” 

“I don’t think I do actually. Actually I think if you knew me really and not just by some stupid superguy name the public pegged me for maybe we would work better.” 

“We work well together.” This was true. Eddie was honestly sort of offended by the suggestion that they did not. Vex shoves the last bit of churro into his mouth and annihilates it with his teeth. 

“Yeah, that was a stupid argument. But don’t you think we could stop wasting so much energy trying to hide who we are? I wanna tell you about my day sometimes, Gen. I wanna know what your favorite restaurant is. I hardly think that’s so bad. It’s not like I’m a celebrity. Not yet anyway. I wouldn’t let anyone torture your name out of me. It doesn’t have to compromise anything.” 

“Vex,” Eddie says carefully. Because the idea was nice and it wasn’t like Eddie had not entertained it also. He wanted to know where Vex went to school, what he was interested in outside of churros and cats and crime fighting, the kind of people he hung out with. But this life was dangerous enough and knowing something like a real name put them at even more risk. 

“It’s fine,” Vex says, and he sounds like someone who knows already they have lost the argument, tired and defeated, the complete opposite of how he sounded after a fight. 

“At least tell me what he’s like,” Vex says. “I don’t need his name or what he looks like.” 

“He’s got curly hair.” 

“Or you can tell me what he looks like.” 

Eddie smiles and when he breathes there is the moisture of his breath warm against the fabric of his fitted mask. “And he’s–” Eddie thinks for a moment and makes a downwards motion with his hands, forming a box. “Squareish. And obnoxiously tall. Sort of like you actually.” 

Actually Eddie thought sometimes the resemblance was annoyingly uncanny and cursed the sky above him for making it so. Vex grins at him, and Eddie resists the urge to push his face away with how close he’s gotten. 

“So you have a type it seems.” 

“I don’t and even if I did you aren’t it,” Eddie says. “And he’s funny.” 

“Funny?.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says, softer than he means to. “I kind of hate it but not ever actually. He makes me laugh. He makes me feel like I do when we have a good night helping people, you know? Like bright and alive and the world is my oyster.” 

“Woah. He’s got you quoting Shakespeare.” 

“You asked,” Eddie points out, feeling a bit carried away. 

“Indeed,” Vex says with a solemn nod, and then he smiles. For a moment Eddie almost recognizes the shape of it, the line of his teeth, a wave of complete clarity washing over him. And then he turns away and the moment vanishes. Eddie blinks and feels put-off. 

“It’s nice to know you actually have a life outside of all this bullshit,” Vex says, hands gripping the rooftop edge as he leans far enough backwards he would fall back if he let go, core strength be damned. At least he wasn’t leaning the other way, which he did sometimes just to freak Eddie out, where the city chattered beneath them, and the lights reflected off too large windows of the manhattan buildings. 

“It’s not bullshit,” Eddie says and he means it. It was so easy to become disillusioned with everything, and he fell into that easy sometimes, more often than he would have liked. But Eddie knew he could at least help stop some of the worst things in life that hurt people. 

“Yeah,” Vex says. “I know you have your hero complex and I respect that.” 

“You’re kind of an asshole.” 

“I know you are but what am I?” 

“I bet you’re an asshole in real life too.” 

Vex smirks at him. And then his mouth changes shape and there is something sort of quietly, unknowingly sad about it, lopsided and toothy, his voice a wobbly lilt. 

“Guess you’ll never find out for sure.” 

–

Eddie is falling asleep on his bed. 

Maybe it took them too long to decide what to watch. Half the fun of Netflix nights with Eddie (tragically it wasn’t chill) was arguing over the absurdly wide selection. Eddie wanted Twin Peaks. Richie said didn’t real life depress him enough. Richie wanted Adam Sandler. Eddie said didn’t his terrible sense of humor depress him enough. Someone was inevitably elbowed in the ribs and they would settle on The Office per usual. 

But he must be sunk even lower than his normal level of exhaustion. He had mentioned some late nights lately, studying for something or another, a huge project, perpetual stress. But Eddie was always sort of anal about leaving before midnight when he came over, like he was Cinderella and would turn on the hour, and Richie met with Genesis around that time anyway. 

So he should wake him up. Even though it was his night off from the whole good guy fights bad guy gig and he wouldn’t mind spending it with Eddie asleep beside him. Even so he slides out from underneath where Eddie has his head resting on his chest and gently shakes his shoulder.

“Eddie, hey. Wake up.” 

Eddie grumbles something incoherent and scrunches his brows. He’s so cute like this, sleepy with his hands fisted in the sheets. He’s always so freaking cute. But in moments like these it hits Richie like a blow to the chest, and he has first account experience of what that feels like. 

“You fell asleep,” Richie says when Eddie blinks sleepily up at him. He has a crease on his cheek from the folded fabric of Richie’s shirt where he had just been laying, and his hair is stuck up like a cockatiel from where Richie had been running his hand through it. 

“Oh,” Eddie says. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Richie says, and fuck it. Eddie was always so strict about his self-imposed curfew but Richie might as well ask. 

“You can sleep over,” he says. “If you want. It’s late and you look pretty shit tired.” 

“Um,” Eddie says, and flops his head back down, looking up at Richie at an angle. “You sure?” 

Richie sort of hated that he had to ask. But maybe that was the nature of his friendship, inaccessible except on nights like this, when he was bone-deep exhausted enough to justify a night off. He wonders absently what Gen thinks, if he felt the same back-headed guilt for flipping the switch for a night when bad things were still happening. Because they always were. But Richie was too selfish a person to surrender a break from it. 

“I just washed my sheets,” Richie offers. And revels in the way Eddie smiles at him then, too sleepy-tired to quip anything back. He’s seen some beautiful things in life but the way Eddie smiles at him might be one of the most. 

“Alright. G’night, Rich.” 

And he closes his eyes, long lashes a shadow over the soft skin purple beneath his eyes. Richie has always been pleasantly astounded at how fast Eddie could fall asleep, on any shoulder, couch or floor available, no matter the noise and in a minute tops. He keeps a mental record just for kicks but this might just break it, because he is breathing the way people do fast asleep in less than five seconds.

Richie watches Eddie asleep for one moment longer before he starts to feel like a creep and then gets up to make himself a cup of tea. 

He feels like a masochist. He turns on the teapot by the microwave. That was what Gen had been getting at the other day too. He was reckless. Sometimes he liked the way his bruises looked before he inevitably had to cover them up, fingers messy but practiced at the color correction, green for red, the first day, yellow for purple as it started to heal. He sticks a teabag in a chipped mug and pours the hot water. 

He liked the thrill of knowing he had been _just_ fast enough, the skim of air at a barely missed strike. He liked egging them on, a matador of the violent. He liked the name despite himself. It fit what with the way he ran his mouth. To vex. He pours too much sugar. 

He liked most the way Eddie made him feel, like he was nursing a broken heart before he could ever work up the nerve to confess and have it broken in the first place. And maybe that was fucked up but it was more than that too. Eddie stole his hoodies. He forced him to quote hydrate or diedrate unquote. Eddie kicked him in the shins during intramural soccer and then patched him up afterwards. And laughed at all his dumb jokes before cracking a better one without even meaning to. He was wicked smart, stupid hot, brave and beautiful, and sometimes Richie looked at him and he was already looking back and Richie thought _maybe._ And then Eddie would bite his lip and look away and Richie would think _no._

The tea burns his tongue on the first sip. 

-

“Hello,” Vex drawls low, his voice fake-flirty and effective in stunning the three men. They turn quickly enough, there is the sound of a single gun cocking, and Vex puts his hands up, mock surrender. Eddie rolls his eyes beside him. 

“Look,” Vex says, wiggling all ten fingers for emphasis. “I’m a pretty morally ambiguous guy myself, but I gotta say the whole drug smuggling in an abandoned warehouse shindig might _just_ cross the line.”

He takes an exaggerated sniff. “What even is that? Smells like shit for drugs, no offense. Whatever that’s not the point. If you put the guns down and pinky promise not to do it again, I think my sidekick here and I might let it slide just this once. How does that sound?” 

“I am not your fucking sidekick.” 

“Yes but you _are_ ruining the scene.” 

One of the men grunts uncomfortably and Vex turns his attention back to them. “Deal?” 

Nope, pop the p. One of the men grabs the case and sprints out the door. 

“Shit,” Vex says mournfully. 

“I know you knew he would do that.” 

Vex shrugs, and then he thrusts forward and the first shot near misses his shoulder. He grabs the man by the wrist and wrenches it backwards. The next shot hits the ceiling. He twists his wrist further and the man cries out and the gun clatters to the ground. 

Eddie knees the one remaining man in the sternum. He is shorter than ideal so he has to grab him by the nape for leverage. While the man regains his breath, Eddie picks up the gun and shapes it into something akin to a cricket bat– there is only enough material to work with that it is thin, but the metal is hard enough that when he slams it across the man’s face he groans, holding his hurting face, but does not get back up. 

He turns back to Vex, who is nudging his own guy with his booted foot. It is overkill. He could tell the difference between an unconscious heartbeat and an awake one. He was rubbing in a faster nab and Eddie was absolutely not bothered. 

“Celebratory slushies?” 

“That stuff rots your teeth.” 

“You sound like my dad.” 

“Where’s the guy that ran off?”

“Follow me, amigo.” 

Vex leads him out the door the man ran through, down a long hallway. Despite the city outside there is very little light coming through the windows, so Eddie is more reliant on Vex leading him than normal. He keeps a careful step beside him. 

Vex hums softly and tilts his head ever so slightly to the right. 

“What?” 

“Nothing, just–” Eddie watches him with a slight chill. “I can’t hear _anything._ Not even the city.” 

Stagnant. This is what runs a chill up his spine. Not any sound but the utter lack of it. If Eddie focused enough he is sure he could hear his own heart beating. Or maybe it was that if he focused enough he isn’t sure it would even be beating at all. The air around them feels dead. 

He cannot imagine what that must be like for Vex. Overwhelming in the complete and opposite sense that the world must usually be. He feels like he is being swallowed. He opens his mouth to say something but Vex shushes him. 

“Wait–” He says softly, and then something Eddie does not make out. And then he twists violently and wraps his body around Eddie, and shoves him backwards with his weight.

Eddie feels the heat of it before he registers the ringing in his ears. His back slammed to the ground, Vex on top of him. Vex groans, the sound of it close to Eddie’s ears but muffled amongst the ringing in them. Eddie shifts underneath him and he groans again this time louder. 

“Shit,” Eddie says, his hearing returning slowly. “Vex?” 

“Urgh.” 

“I’m gonna move you, okay?” 

He does not receive an answer. He makes careful work of it, lifting Vex gently by the shoulders and scooting his own body out from under him. He turns him over face up, keeping his torso lifted. His forehead falls to rest against Eddie’s shoulder, and Eddie puts a hand to his nape to steady him and assess the damage. 

“Fuck.” 

It’s bad. Real bad. Eddie tries not to panic so Vex doesn’t pick up on it but probably mostly fails. The ringing of his ears has faded some. He might have a concussion. He does not give a single shit about that. Because there is something metal and rod-like through Vex’s lower torso. If Vex had not used his own body as a protective shield then– Eddie spares a glance at his surroundings. It looks like a ceiling collapse, metal and glass and wood materials spread haphazardly about. An explosion? That would explain the heat. 

“Vex,” Eddie says. “Stay with me, alright?”

“Couldn’t leave ya’ even if I wanted to,” Vex says, muffled into his shoulder, and he coughs wetly. . 

Eddie adjusts him very carefully, does not lay him down but uses his body to prop him more upright and puts a hand to one cheek. He cannot see his eyes beneath the mask, only the painful twist of his mouth, and his gut churns. This was an absurdly implausible thing and it was not meant for Vex and Eddie is angry he took it for him. 

“Why the fuck did you do that?” 

“What kind of question–” Vex says. “You serious, Gen? I’m dying here and you’re still playing at the martyr shit. I would rather it be me than you, that’s why.” 

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Eddie says, softer than he means. He has a plan formulating. A god awful terrible plan, but something. He coaxes the wave of panic he feels to a gentler ripple and shifts Vex for a better angle. 

Maturin taught him from the very beginning that they could never ask for help. Not even when they were badly hurt. It was just more reason to look out for each other, to be the best and fight the best they could, so they never had to choose between living and being found out. 

Because if the time ever came when you had to choose. Let them die.

Vex was not going to die. 

The seam rips as he tears a piece of fabric off his sleeve with his teeth. 

“I need you not to bite your tongue off,” Eddie says. 

“What are you gonna do?” 

“Do you trust me?” 

“What kind of stupid question is that?” 

“Do. You. Trust. Me?” 

“Of course I trust you.” 

“Okay,” Eddie says, and he puts the piece of cloth in Vex’s mouth and watches him bite down carefully. “Try not to move.” 

And then Eddie shifts again, braces one hand on Vex’s shoulder and the other he wraps around the metal impaling him. He could try to compress it, dull it, but he doesn’t know where it sits relative to his vessels so it would be too much a risk. Instead he grips it firm and wrenches it out of his lower back. It clatters to the floor with a spatter of crimson. The sound Vex makes is muffled by the fabric, wretched and guttural. He keels forward, whimpers. There is too much blood. 

Vex collapses sideways onto him. Eddie puts a hand to the wound. 

Genesis, they called him. But it never rang true. He could not create something out of nothing. Material always called for material. Energy always was conserved. He could make any weapon he wanted if he just had something at hand to craft it out of. He could turn anything he touched. He could not create something out of nothing. 

But he didn’t need to. If he wanted something, hoped for it enough, then maybe. He could not replace what was lost or take away something gained, the blood and the pain, but he could do this at least. 

His fingers are bloody with it. His eyes shut and he thinks– skin stretching, stitching itself, the blood of vessels working to repair them, healing. 

“Holy shit,” Vex says. And then he goes limp. 

“Vex?” Eddie says, and removes his hand only to lift Vex up again. “Shit. Don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.” 

He slaps him gently. Nothing. So without thought he slips off his mask and slaps him again. Lifts one eyelid with a finger. His pupil dilates even in the dark and maybe some light has returned, maybe the city is breathing again. Eddie puts his cheek to his mouth. His breath is faint but warm. 

Eddie pulls back and forgets breathing of his own. Because he knows the face in front of him, he could easily pinpoint every mark, freckles like stars. He could pick out the shade of his eyes from paint samples even when they were closed in unconscious sleep. He has every line of his face memorized. He dreams of it sometimes. Eddie breathes only because his body forces it. 

Softly, he says his name. “Richie.” 

-

Richie had woken up cradled in Gen’s arms and with a headache, and when he had pressed a hand to his torso it hurt but in a faint, phantom pain way. Less like he had just been impaled. More like he never had been. When he asked Gen about it his explanation had been bizarre at best and nonsensical at worst. So he let it drop. 

It made absolutely no sense but Richie was still grateful for it. He probably would have had a hard time with that one, not like the bruises and cuts easily covered up with a bit of makeup and a few bandages here and there. Still, that night he does not sleep and the whole week he can’t focus either. 

His filters are out of whack, every slight of breath and skip of the heart anxiety inducing. He hears Ben when Bev pecks him on the cheek. Bill when he gets worked up about his final chapter (Richie reads it and gets worked up too so he doesn’t really fault him for it). The smell of body and weed and dining hall tacos is so overwhelmingly pungent that he has to breathe out of his mouth. And then he is just swallowing it. Every grazing touch sets him in overdrive. 

He feels like he did at the beginning, when he was first learning to control it. He sleeps more. He takes a couple painkillers in the hopes it will dull his senses. Ill-advised but he is desperate and impatient. But the most frustrating part of it all is Eddie. 

Richie could not put a finger to it. He never means to, tries his absolute darndest not to listen in. But Eddie is a lightning ball, and Richie was always sort of perky-eared drawn to him, static like tiny hairs rubbed to a red balloon. And he is having a hard enough time recalibrating that it’s not even on purpose that he notices. 

He looks, sounds, and acts _crazy_ stressed, and he wasn’t particularly laid-back to begin with. Richie wasn’t really into the idea of breaking his own heart despite his curated masochism, but Eddie was looking at him more often now than ever. Wide-eyed, eavesdropping, paying attention to Richie in a way he isn’t really used to. Like he was trying to solve a complicated math problem. Richie once watched him have a breakdown solving for a proof sophomore year. So he thinks he should be worried. But he’s also pleased about it in a mean, selfish kind of way. 

Mostly though he wants to sandwich Eddie’s tiny face in his too-large too-feeling hands and demand that he tell him what the fuck was going on. Did Richie have spinach in his teeth? A second head he inexplicably didn’t know about? Did he need to shave (he needed to shave)? What was with the deer in the headlights bambi after his mother dies look in your eyes? 

Weirder still Eddie was coddling him. Richie had climbed onto a trashcan to deliver a monologue on the way back from class the other day and Eddie had yelled for him to get down he was going to fall and crack his head open and he wasn’t in the mood to clean that up. Which wasn’t unusual but usually he waited for Richie to get in a few words of dramatism before the feigned reprimand. Richie was meant to work out with Ben the other day and Eddie had demanded they all check out the new gyro place instead. He brings him snacks in the library, which he always did but now the vending machine m&m’s and a bottle of fanta too. 

And his heart. Richie could hear it. He didn’t mean to. But fuck. It was speedy gonzales fast. He might crack it up to an induced medical condition but his ears could tell even that difference. This was the anxious sort or racing of the heart, quick as a rabbit running for its life, maybe even quicker. 

He wants to return the sentiment and coddle him back but also he likes having his head attached safely to his neck. Not that Eddie wouldn’t sew it back on if he accidentally guillotined it off in a rage. Still. He approaches carefully, like one would a tiny but venomous snake. Carefully. Maybe with a stick. 

Eddie is working differential equations at Richie’s desk. His handwriting is atrocious. He takes a sip of the pomegranate tea Richie made for him and taps his pencil to the paper. Richie watches him from his position on the bed, and then flips his notebook shut. 

“Eds,” he says. 

Eddie only hums in response, intensely focused because he does not correct the nickname. His eyes do not leave the notes in front of him. Richie clears his throat. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

“You should probably wait until you graduate to adopt a cat if it’s about that again.” 

Damn. He was right but it was still tragic to hear. “Not that,” Richie says. “Just uh… you feeling okay?” 

Eddie looks up, eyes comically wide. “What?” 

“Are you feeling okay?” 

“Why are you asking?” 

There is a hint of defensiveness in his voice. Richie tosses the stick. Eddie was not a snake and it was stupid to metaphorize anyway. 

“You look like you could use a nap? I dunno.” 

“What the fuck, Richie.” 

Shit. Was he angry? Why the hell was he angry? It wasn’t like Richie was so much of an asshole that asking a simple question about how he was doing was so out of character. But he was definitely pissed. His eyebrows are making that distinctly angry shape. His cheeks are flushed with it. 

“I’m just– Sorry, are you actually pissed that I’m asking?” 

“No,” Eddie says. “I’m pissed that you’re a hypocrite.” 

“What the _fuck_ does that even mean?” Seriously. “Fine, god. I won’t ask again. Sue me for giving a shit.” 

And then Eddie is undone like a shoelace knot. The tension in his body dissipated. He looks at Richie and then away. Richie wants to hug him so fucking bad. He wants to ruffle his hair and stick his face in his neck and he feels like an asshole but has no idea why. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Eddie says miserably.

“Then what did you mean?” 

“Nothing, I– I don’t want to fight, Rich. I’m just stressed out right now.” 

He had been telling the truth until the last part. It wasn’t what he meant. He didn’t want to fight. He was stressed out but not just. There was something else there too. Richie could hear it in the hitch of his heart even though he really _really_ doesn’t mean to. He smiles but it feels sloppy and sad just like the rest of him. 

“You can tell me if something’s wrong, you know. I’ve got big ears and if it would help…” 

He means to comfort. But Eddie looks at him like it is the worst fucking thing he’s ever heard. Maybe he thought Richie was kidding. Shit, was he about to cry? 

“Eddie, are you sure you’re ok–” 

“I’m fine!” Eddie says, voice pitched, and then he sits abruptly up, shoves his stuff in his bag, and walks out the door with an excuse that he forgot to feed his betta fish. Faster than Richie can think to stop him. 

He doesn’t even have a betta. 

Richie blinks at the empty space left behind. The mug of tea he always washed by hand before leaving. The sticky note he doodled to leave for Richie. He shakes his head clear, tries not to Sherlock Holmes what the hell just happened because it would make less sense the more he did, and because it sort of hurts to think about. 

He shoots Eddie a message to call him later, flips his notebook back open, and desperately craves a nap. 

-

The sky is milky tonight, dark but the clouds and a bright moon and the city lights make it foggy with pink. Eddie could hear the city noise from all the way up here. He wonders what it must be like for Richie, to have to parse through it all. He wonders how long it took him to figure out how to. A car honks and Eddie watches to see if Richie might flinch. He does not, tiptoeing the edge of the roof. 

“So he’s just been _avoiding_ me,” Richie is saying. “But also I have never felt so paid attention to.” 

Eddie is having a hard time reconciling hawaain shirt loudmouth Richie Tozier with the nightwatching vigilante in front of him. Who wore dark cargo pants with big pockets, a hoodie and mask that covered his eyes. But maybe not. Watching him now it was obvious in a smack to the forehead revelation kind of way. 

Richie did the same thing battling life as he did fighting crime. He fired his shots without ever looking, went about everything with an unbridled, totally unfounded optimism that everything would always be okay in the end, even if it sucked to get there. His foot dangles dangerously over the edge. 

“Get down,” Eddie says. “You’re going to eat shit.” 

Richie plops obediently onto his butt beside Eddie. “It’s like– one second he’s lecturing me on drinking enough water and taking a nap like I’m six years old again, and then I try to sit with him in the library and he just fucking bolts.” 

Richie had not sewn the pockets of his cargo pants. Not like Eddie so they wouldn’t snag on anything in a fight. Eddie should offer to do it for him. Maybe he’s overcompensating for something and he knows it. He dreamt about it the other night. Woke up sheathed in sweat. 

“I have never seen anyone yeet so fast at the sight of me,” Richie says. “Is it because I’m ugly? You can’t answer that having just seen half my face but I’m not actually– I mean I haven’t looked my best since being impal–”

“Vex.” 

“I’m beautiful,” he finishes. 

Eddie snorts. “Keep telling yourself that.” 

From here Eddie could make out the square shape of Richie’s nails, hands resting on the ground beside him. Cuticles grown over the bed. They were Richie’s hands. Of course they were. Big and knuckley and calloused at the tips. He wore gloves where Eddie didn’t. Eddie needed his hands to touch and shape what was in front of him, but Richie used his fists more, thumb always, always tucked to the outside after the first time he punched someone and hurt it so badly they suspected he broke it. He touched Eddie softly with those same hands. 

“So he’s acting weird,” Eddie says with a nonchalant shrug that feels more tense than anything. “Maybe it’s not about you.” 

“I don’t think so,” Richie says carefully. 

“You’re really worked up about this,” Eddie realizes, because he notices when Richie is hung up on something and notices it now more than ever, the way he can’t keep still for a second and worked his bottom lip between his slight-buck teeth and made little humming noises like that would help him work it all out. 

Richie shrugs, his shoulder brushing Eddie’s. “Yeah, I mean. You’ve got your guy and I’ve got mine, alright? I like him. That’s not even really the point. I care about him. He makes me feel normal. He likes my jokes.” 

Normal. If only he knew. Was he that obvious about liking the jokes? He liked him? What did that even mean? Richie as Vex flirted with every civilian he saved. He was sort of notorious for it. Eddie had read about it on a blog once. 

“Are you going to tell him?” A shot in the dark. 

“Tell him what?” 

“That you like him,” Eddie says. Was that even what he meant? 

“Jesus, no.” Eddie’s heart sinks. “I think I more than like him.” Buoys. 

Wait. 

“But he’s my best friend,” Richie says. “I can’t just jump his bones because I feel like it.” 

Oh. 

This was wrong. Eddie feels slimy and terrible and like he had just discovered a pearl but it wasn’t his oyster, a secret he wasn’t meant to have heard. It made no difference that he felt the same because he was still too afraid to tell him. There was nothing left to lose anymore. But he was still too afraid to tell him. 

There is moisture in his mask when he speaks even though his throat is dry. “Any luck figuring out what happened the other night?” 

“Nada,” Richie says, moving on easily. Eddie is both disappointed and relieved. 

“What about before? Someone or something that could have caused the explosion?” 

“I heard that guy breathing really fast. I was following him and then he just stopped. Not like he was dead but like he was swallowed. Just gone. And then the weird silence– not a normal silence, Gen. You felt it. It was like nothing I have ever– like someone pressed pause on everything. That kind of silence shouldn’t even be possible.” 

“And then?” 

“We’ve gone over this before.” 

“‘I just wanna make sure we didn’t miss anything.” 

“And then I felt that heat and I heard this tiny little fizzle and I just knew. So I did the thing, you know the thing. And then you pulled that crazy stunt and I passed out and I woke up in your arms after you kissed me back to life like Snow White, my Prince Charming!” 

“Not what happened.” 

“Oh?” Richie says. “Then what _did_ happen?” 

“I told you already.” 

“Yeah,” Richie says. “And I don’t believe you.” 

“Are you listening to me?” 

“Not on purpose! You’re fucking obvious, dude. And I don’t– the fact that I was basically impaled and then woke up distinctly not impaled anymore kind of lends itself to more of an explanation than uh I patched you up you’re good to go now.” 

“Fuck you, dude.” 

“Are you seriously not going to tell me?” 

“Fine,” Eddie says. “I just– it’s the same principle. I’ve just never done it with organic matter before.” 

“I assure you I do not eat it organic.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

“So– same thing, just blood and guts instead of the inanimate junk?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Uh hu. Cool.” 

“Okay, but don’t you think it’s sort of overkill?” Eddie says hurredly, because he had been thinking about it constantly. “I feel like I’m not, I dunno, brave or selfless enough for that sort of thing.” 

“Dude, you’re easily the bravest person I know.” 

“You only say that because I save your ass constantly.” 

“You’re brave, Gen. What kind of stupid asshole would be brave enough to fight crime every night?” 

“Uh, you do that too.” 

“Yeah, so we’re both brave.” 

“Yeah, alright.” 

Richie sighs, seemingly satisfied, and after a little bit he sighs again, less satisfied. 

“I’m not taking back the pep talk or anything, but you ever think all of this is a little bullshit.” 

“No.” 

“C’mon man. I get most of ‘em, I do. I’m not tryna make excuses for generally shitty people. And sure my moral compass is probably fucked but you can’t honestly think every guy on the street that makes a bad decision isn’t driven by circumstance.” 

“I don’t think that,” Eddie says easily. “I know it’s more complicated than good and bad, V. But the moment it goes from bad circumstance to hurting other people is when it’s not okay. It’s not our job to fix everything that went wrong. All we can do is stop it getting worse. 

“Jesus,” Richie says, voice choked. “I wish Matty had given us a bit more to go on before he fucked off.” 

“It’s not like he died on purpose.” 

Richie only hums at that, picks at the fraying edges of his pockets. Eddie really, _really_ wants to sew them shut for him. He recalls their first night together. _Very grunge,_ Richie had said of his outfit, his head moving up and down like he was checking him out. And Eddie had chewed him out for his terrible choice for attire (bright red converse, jeans, and a scarf that threatened to undo itself around his eyes and forehead) and he’d returned the next day with an almost identical fit to Eddie. And when his fists got bloody that night Eddie told him to get gloves and he got those too. 

They’d been so young then. Just three years ago but still a lifetime away. Richie was still hearing and feeling and smelling too much to make sense of. Eddie was still practicing the fine-tuning. He used to sharpen his pencils with his fingers over and over again in class just to practice at it, a bad idea in retrospect because someone could’ve seen. And maybe it was Maturin’s mist magic at work that kept people from ever noticing. Maybe it was what kept Eddie so long from making out the truth. And what kept Richie from knowing it now. 

“Got something,” Richie says beside him. “Few blocks South. Ready to kick names and take ass?” 

Eddie smiles despite himself. Richie couldn’t see it anyhow. “Ready as ever.” 

-

Eddie is calmer now. Not quite back to his usual pleasant perpetual buzz, but better and getting there. He still looks sleep-deprived but just a little less so, and Richie would take any improvement at this point. Honestly he’s a little desperate for Eddie to take a nap. 

Richie is over at Eddie’s place this time, with lemonade and thai as a sort of precautionary olive branch. But when Richie brings the subject back up Eddie only insists again that he is fine, don’t worry about it, he was gonna work on something a bit and they could watch something after. 

And that was enough really. It shouldn’t have been but Richie was a pushover. Conflict avoidant, as counterintuitive as he is sure that sounded. He enjoyed being an irritant but hated the real confrontation. So maybe he was afraid to know if there was a real problem. He didn’t want to pry. He wasn’t going to eavesdrop. 

He sits on Eddie’s bed and sips at his juice box and scrolls through his phone. There are a couple new snapshots of him and Gen circulating on twitter– captured the night before last during a mugging behind the bowling alley. No biggie, they’d got both the guys before they hurt anyone, but Richie had ended up with a bruise before Gen had smacked the unlucky guy with the lucky hit upside the head. 

Come to think of it Gen had been acting sort of strange too. He’d checked Richie after that fight, fingers to ribs and pressing. He’d been doing that, ever since the drug deal maybe not drug deal the longer he thought about it gone wrong– fussing. Richie had teased some ATM robber for his stance the other day and Gen had kicked him a little too hard in the knees. His crafted weapons seemed a little sharper lately. He was more impatient than ever. Wouldn’t let Richie get in his usual quip as often. Bothersome but not quite of the intervention sort. So Richie let it be. 

He types out a response to the tweeted photos. 

fuc these guys and they ugly !! #Batman5ever **🥴🥴🥴**

He saves the photos to his phone to show Gen later. There was a particularly good shot of his ass in those cargo pants that he was going to hate. And then he sneaks a glance over his phone to Eddie, just to see how it’s going, because he’s feeling antsy and wants to get his hands in Eddie’s hair ASAP, blow a raspberry into his neck, but only if he’s not in the zone. 

Eddie has the collar of his shirt pulled up and around his mouth. He did that when he was particularly focused. Richie stares. Blinks and his lashes stick. Stares longer. Something tingles in the back of his head. He takes off his glasses, rubs the lenses with the cotton of his shirt, puts them back on. 

With his mouth covered by the fabric of his shirt it was easier than ever to notice Eddie’s eyes. The prettiest that Richie had ever laid eyes on. And either Richie was really fucking stupid or Maturin’s mumbo jumbo mist magic was a lot stronger than he let on. Because he knew those eyes. 

They belonged to Genesis. 

Eddie looks up from his notes like he senses it. His mouth twists. Richie closes his own. 

“Are you okay?” 

“What.” 

“You look like you just shit your pants.” 

Eddie. Who was Genesis? Who could manipulate inanimate material into anything he wanted. With his fucking mind. Richie stares, realizes what he’s doing, narrows his eyes but that must look fucking wack too. He schools his expression into something he hopes is semi normal. 

“Headache,” Richie says. 

The little furrow in his brow deepens and Richie feels like someone just punched him in the gut. He blinks again. Was he seeing things right? He feels like his eyes are adjusting to the dark or something. But no. There was no other person it could be. Could have been. And it never even occurred to him. Richie feels fleetingly ashamed at the rush of hatred he feels in that moment for Maturin.

Maybe he needs to clean his glasses better. But Eddie closes that distance between them, reaches out and puts a hand on his forehead like a mom would her feverish kid, and christ. Same hands too. Smaller than his own, long fingers, cool to the touch or maybe it’s just the contrast, _superpowered._

“I’ll go grab you something,” Eddie says when he pulls away. 

Richie nods. Eddie leaves the room to fetch whatever it is. Richie stares at his hands and listens to his own heart. Obnoxious, loud, thumping so loud he could feel it in his temples. Was he imagining this because he wanted it? Some sort of twisted reconciliation his brain was fabricating for the way he felt about them both? 

Did Eddie know?

When Eddie returns Richie takes the glass of water and three ibuprofen from him. And he says nothing about it. 

–

Richie groans and flops himself onto the table, arms sprawls, messy curls falling around him. Objectively he needed a haircut, but Eddie wasn’t going to say anything because he rather liked the way it curled into frizzy ringlets when he let it air dry. “This _blows.”_

“Maybe if you worked for longer than thirty seconds at a time it wouldn’t be so insufferable,” Bev says, not unkindly, and pulls out her papers from underneath Richie’s laden form, smoothes them out with her hand. 

“Whatever,” Richie says, which is less of a comeback than he usually comes up with, actually is pretty miserable sounding, which means that he’s more stressed out about finals than he’s letting on. Eddie presses his pencil harder into the paper in front of him. “Billy boy you got that story on you?” 

“I’m n-n-ot d-done editing yet.” 

“No biggie, I can spell check.” 

“You can’t spell,” Stan says. 

“Blasphemy.” 

“It’s in my b-b-binder,” Bill says. “D-don’t spill anything on it.” 

Richie grins, leans over Eddie to grab at the binder. Eddie pokes him in the cheek with his pencil in retaliation, but he just grins harder and says nothing, leans back, knees to the underside of the table and only two legs of his chair on the floor, because he likes to eat shit. Or at least likes the threat of it. 

Eddie takes a break from his own work to study the seven of them, sitting at a round table too small for all of them and their books and papers but they make it work anyhow. Bill sits with his laptop in his lap to leave space for Mike to spread out a bit more. Ben isn’t actually working anymore, sitting beside Bev and sketching in a hand-sized sketchbook with a ruler in one hand. Bev looks tired but happy with her hair pulled messily up in a bun and working on her own designs, probably because her feet are tangled up in Ben’s underneath the table. Stan looks pissed at whatever it is he’s working on, sipping at his coffee with an absurd intensity. There is a small pink heart and a ‘p’ signed on the cardboard cup. 

And Richie can’t get any work done. He keeps picking up a pencil and then putting it back down, getting up to take a lap around the library and returning with the intent to work before doing it all over again. At least he isn’t wreaking havoc on anyone else, but still Eddie is distracted by the way he’s leaning back in his chair like that, his feet bumping into Eddie’s knees, how he’s sitting, the obnoxious little noises he’s making in his throat while he reads Bill’s script. 

He wants to shut him up even though he’s not even really saying anything. Ideally with his mouth. But he’s still sort of in crisis-mode and it wouldn’t be awesome timing and this math problem is actually pulverizing his brain. 

“Holy,” Richie says, and nearly topples backwards. Eddie grabs at the arm of his chair and pulls him back up to safety. He doesn’t seem to notice the close call. Which peeves Eddie more than it should. Richie flips to the end of the binder and reads more, fervent, blue eyes wide behind his lenses. 

“Bill, what the fuck!” Richie says, feigned outrage but also he does sound a little for real hurt. “You told me you weren’t gonna kill him off!” 

“Spoilers, Rich,” Mike says. 

“I know I p-promised you that the first draft, but it didn’t m-m-make sense in the end.” 

“Who are you, Stephen King? What the fuck do you have against happy endings?” 

“Sad endings aren’t necessarily bad endings,” Ben says amicably. 

“He l-lied, Rich. It j-just ends up-p c-catostrophic f-for him.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“It’s just a story,” Stan interjects. 

“He tells the truth in the end,” Richie says. He sounds miserable about it. 

“Yeah, so that’s the p-point. His who-whole life he’s l-lying but in the end he m-makes amends with it. He’s h-happy in the end.” 

“He fucking dies!” 

“That does sound kind of dark, babe,” Mike admits. Bev nods, a contemplative frown playing at her face. 

Eddie gets up from his seat. 

“Where you going?” Bev says. 

“Bathroom,” Eddie says shortly. And doesn’t turn around on his way down the hallway to the closest stalls. 

He feels like an asshole but something about the way Richie was talking about Bill’s story, like it was real stakes, and the way all seven of them looked at him when he got up from his seat, falling starkly silent before Bev had the notion to speak, it felt like sandpaper to his insides. 

Richie had whined once about how Bill sometimes stopped mid-conversation to make note of something he said to use for his writing. It’s not like Bill hid that. As much as he was self conscious about his writing in general, he was pretty transparent about his inspiration for things. Friends included. 

But that story. Whatever it was about. Something about the way Bill talked so nonchalant about death, about lying, about consequence, about how Richie seemed so worked up about it… 

Eddie bends over the sink and splashes cold water onto his face. He needs to invest in a mouthguard because it’s starting to hurt how much he grinds his teeth in his sleep nowadays. His reflection blinks tiredly at him, spiderweb purple spread across thin skin beneath manic eyes. He needs to schedule his own intervention. He looks like shit and feels it too. 

Behind him someone exits the stall. Eddie spares him a glance in the reflection longer than necessary. Only because this guy looks like he needs a bit of intervention too. Or else was having a real bad time with final exams. His hair is scraggly dirty blond, beady eyes bloodshot, wearing a muscle shirt stained at the pits. He might be high. Unwise in the library but not entirely unheard of. 

Eddie looks away and turns the faucet off. And then by the grace of some internal instinct he manages to block a knife to the face. 

His wrists pinch hard at the guy’s hand, head dodged to the right so the blade of the knife skids across his shoulder instead. He feels the warmth of fresh blood begin to soak his sweatshirt. 

The guy uses his free hand to smack Eddie across the face. He topples sideways, his head smacks the ground hard, his vision a kaleidoscope. If this was his second concussion in less than a month he was going to be pissed. He is already pretty fucking pissed. 

“What the _fuck!”_ Eddie spits, windshield wipes his legs and the guy trips forward. Eddie rolls over to avoid getting pancaked, and then gets up hands-to-knees and staggers out the door, not to run from a fight but to give himself time to gather his fucking wits. Already this is messier than it should be. He’s caught off guard. He needs to catch a breath. 

Whomst in the fuck hated Eddie enough to try and stick a knife into his face? Not even the abdomen or the leg or something a bit more courteous. His literal face. Did he know Eddie and just hated him on principle (not unheard of) or was he on some bad drugs or did Eddie give him a particularly scathing review for that anonymous peer review in econ last week? 

He needs to get people out of here. Some knife-wielding asshole did not bode well for student body morale. Eddie presses one hand to his bleeding shoulder and the other to the wall for balance. It didn’t feel deep but it was bleeding more than Eddie thought it ought to and he was also probably buzzing with too much adrenaline to feel the pain of a deeper cut. He was also probably doubly concussed. Which was just super awesome. 

He pulls the closest emergency alarm he can find. 

“Eddie! Hey, _Eddie!”_

Even over the blare of the alarm he can hear the sickly sweet drawl of his name. 

“Where did you go, Eddie?” 

This guy knew his name then. 

“I know what you are, Eddie! I know your tricks! It’s your time now!” 

This guy knew who he was. 

Eddie had been holding out hope for some backup, since his head isn’t feeling too hot, but now all he wants is to shut this guy up before he ruins his life by spilling his greatest secret, or worse just ends it. 

He rounds a corner, hand to corner-edge to whip-propel himself forward. People are evacuating but not quite fast enough, probably thinking it a routine fire alarm. He debates setting an actual fire but snubs the idea. He could improvise. He doesn’t need Richie here for this asshole to reveal his identity and for Richie to probably find out he’s been lying to his face about knowing his too. 

He falls into line behind a girl texting on her phone as she makes her way to the stairs to leave the library, snags the scarf wrapped around her neck and falls out of line quickly enough she can only snap at the guy behind her, who looks genuinely fearful of her wrath. Eddie slips into another hallway, watches the library empty. Probably no one has called 911 if they haven’t spotted the guy yet, but the fire department will no doubt show up to a triggered alarm. He should have only a few minutes but that would be enough. 

Eddie wraps the scarf around his nose and mouth and ties a knot behind him. He flips the hood of his sweater up. The blade went right through the fabric by his shoulder and it stings when he touches it but it would have to wait for now. 

“I know you’re out there!” The man yells. “It wants you, Eddie. Don’t make It wait.” 

Eddie steps out into the hall. The man grins at him, teeth yellow. 

“There you are.” 

He charges forward and Eddie dodges him with a simple sidestep. He rams him with his shoulder and they fall together. Eddie hears the knife clatter to the ground and leaps for it. His hand wraps around the cold metal, blade wet with his own blood, and he shapes it dull and useless. And then immediately regrets it when he is tackled sideways. 

The breath in his chest leaves him on impact. The man is bruising and heavy on top of him. Eddie places his hand to the floor and raises it with a stake-like weapon he stabs into his side. He wishes vaguely this was less messy, twists his body out from under him and kicks him backwards. 

He goes but not far, wrenches the stake out and rises to face Eddie. 

“It wants you,” he says. “It will have you.” 

He lunges forward, Eddie’s weapon in hand. 

Somehow, inexplicably, Eddie wraps his grip around the weapon as it comes forward. His hand is wrapped around the sharp edges he himself created. He rounds them out, shaves them down, tosses it aside. 

Eddie punches him in the solar plexus. He doubles over. He kicks him and he stumbles backwards. His back pressed to the wall. He looks crazed but afraid. Good. 

“Who the fuck is _It?”_ Eddie snarls and does not recognize his own voice. 

The man smiles, manic. Eddie smiles back, twisted and furious. He puts his hand to the wall beside his head and pulls away with a rod not unlike the one that went right through Richie. He knows, somehow, watching this man watch him, that he had something to do with it. 

Eddie pins him to the wall by the shoulder. He is depraved and likes the way the man cries out, a terrible curdling sound. 

“You don’t know,” the man spits out. “It is coming for you.” 

“Who?” Eddie says, twists the rod inside of him. 

“It knows who you are. It knows what you can do. It knows who you love.” 

“Shut up.” 

The man laughs. “It will take them all. It will eat them.” 

Eddie punches him. Pinned like a mounted cockroach. He goes silent and because there is still so much rage inside of him Eddie punches the wall beside him, over and over again. His hands aren’t made for that but he does it anyway. He can feel the skin of his knuckles breaking and he can see his own blood smeared to the walls and he doesn’t care. 

“Gen, stop.” 

A hand on his bloodied shoulder. He doesn’t flinch away. His chest heaves, heartache and regret and shame. 

“You got him,” Richie says. Takes his hands and holds them gently between them. His hands are ungloved. Richie’s hands, skin to skin. He’s getting his blood all over him. “Your hands,” Richie says softly, like he’s heartbroken to see it and Eddie wrenches them away and does not care at the way Richie’s own hands hover in the air before falling to his side. 

Richie. His mask is wrong, makeshift and covering his mouth instead of his eyes. They look afraid and hurt. Maybe rightfully so. Eddie had just pinned a man to a wall. He’d just beaten his own hands to a pulp. Maybe he should be. 

But Richie just shakes his head like he can hear what Eddie is thinking and puts an arm around his waist and Eddie lets him guide him away. Somewhere where he didn’t have to see this man who threatened to ruin him. Who said things that made no sense and left his mind a bloodied, frenzied pulp. Just ten minutes ago he was mourning over a probable drop in his letter grade. And now. He feels raw and seen and vulnerable. 

He wants to rip the fabric from his face. He wants to be anyone but himself. He wants to feel like his hands belong to him. Nothing was right. He was a liar. He needed Richie to know who he was but still he couldn’t bring himself to say it. What the fuck was wrong with him that he was so afraid to be known? Why was he still so scared? 

“What took you so long?” He says miserably. 

“I’m sorry,” Richie says. “They wouldn’t let me– there was a big crowd. A lot of noise. I was so fucking worried about you, man.” 

“I’m– ” Eddie starts and stops. “You’re here now.” 

“Yeah,” Richie says, his eyes crinkling with a smile. “You know, I know a guy that goes here.” 

“Don’t worry,” Eddie says “He’s safe. I pulled the emergency alarm before he could hurt anyone.” 

“Eddie.” 

“What?” 

“That’s his name.” 

“Okay,” Eddie says slowly. “So are you gonna go find him?” 

And he puts a hand on his good shoulder. Eddie can feel the warmth of his fingers through the fabric. He wants to shake his touch off but cannot move. Could he hear how his heart thumped in his head and chest and all his limbs? Was he even listening? 

“I found him.” 

“Richie.” 

Richie breathes shaky and then uses his free hand to pull off the mask. The fabric gathers a pool around his neck. His mouth is a grim line. His eyes are hopeful. Where were his glasses? Eddie hadn’t thought about that before. Supposed he didn’t need them with everything else so hypersensitive. Selfishly, Eddie wishes he was wearing them now. 

“You know my name.” 

“You told me.” 

“Don’t do that, Eddie, c’mon.” 

“Richie, I can’t do this–” 

Eddie reaches out to touch him, maybe shake that look out of his eyes. He almost gets there too. 

“Freeze!” 

Hell. Richie ducks his head to hide his face and Eddie instinctually shifts to hide him from view. How had Richie not heard this coming? Rookie from the looks of it, which was conveniently inconvenient. How must it look, two regular looking kids with scarves wrapped around them, standing this near an unconscious body pinned to the wall with a makeshift rebar. 

Richie clears his throat, turns to the lone officer with his scarf back in place and his hands up. 

“He won’t shoot,” he says to Eddie, who mirrors the stance beside him. “Shakey hands but he won’t shoot.” 

That was all he needed to hear. Eddie sprints forward. Using his arm to brace himself, his knees hit the floor, body twists as his legs kick out in front of him. He slams his feet into the man’s ankle and he falls forward. Eddie rises, kicks the gun out of reach, turns around. 

Richie is looking at him. Eddie’s chest heaves. He must be so loud to hear. He can hear himself. 

“Don’t,” is all he says. He must know. Must sense it coming. 

But Eddie can’t stand to be listened to right now. He can’t stand the way his heart is leaping from his chest, the way his ribs ache like they might crack, at the fault line of his earthquake insides. And the shame, the guilt, the wanting to be known and fear of the consequences. 

He can’t stay here. He turns away from Richie. He can’t look at him. And he leaves, sirens blaring somewhere close, slips the mask off his face and himself out of the building, Richie left behind. 

–

Richie lays in bed with the lights off and watches the news on a too-small phone screen. A fresh-faced reporter speaks gravely to the camera, poised outside the university. Henry Bowers was not a student but the library was for public access. Police had received a 911 call less than a minute after the fire alarm had been triggered, from a young woman who had spotted two men from the fourth floor window of the apartment building across from the university. 

Bowers had been apprehended by an unknown assailant. He was a suspect in a child murder investigation and being held in custody. It was rumored he was on something strong and he looked it too. He had been alluding to some higher power during his arrest. More to follow. 

He hadn’t given up Eddie’s name. Richie knows this because it’s not splashed on every news outlet, and because it should be. He heard it hurled at him even through the chaos of the streaming students and the sirens and the city. He heard it even as he was wrenching himself out of Bill and Ben’s too-strong grip to get to Eddie. Even as he was cursing himself for taking too long, leaping up the steps two at a time to reach him. But by the time he got there it was over already. 

He had not given up Eddie’s name. Richie tried to count it as a blessing though it felt nothing like one– more like a curse. Bill would call it something akin to foreshadowing. A harbinger of sorts. Richie still hates his ending. 

There is a knock on the door as he scrolls through another article and he promptly drops the phone onto his face. He curses, rubbing at the spot as he gets up. His feet move slowly to answer. He hadn’t even done any fighting but his body still aches from something. 

The door swings inwards. 

“Eddie.” 

He looks miserable. He is holding himself carefully like it hurts to stand and it must. Richie had walked in on a fight ended but messier than it usually ever was. He wants to cradle his face, stick a bandaid to what hurts, but Eddie can’t look him in the eye. 

“It’s me,” he says at length. Which means far more than it sounds. A confession of sorts. 

“I know,” Richie says, and he means to smile, to reassure Eddie even though he didn’t much feel high spirits. It doesn’t work anyway. He probably just looks terrible, stiff, and sad. Eddie shuffles his feet, bites his lip, meets his gaze fleetingly. 

“Can I come in?” 

He asks like it is a possibility that Richie will say no. Which sort of breaks Richie’s heart all over again. Eddie had a strange knack for that, breaking his heart and mending it again, with the look in his eyes, the way he was so careful sometimes, packed himself up so neat and unobtrusive like he was afraid to be seen with his limbs stretched out. 

Richie steps aside to let him in. He follows Eddie to the bed, like he has a thousand times before on a thousand nights like this, fighting over the blankets or wrestling for no reason at all. Eddie sits on the edge, wrings his hands in his lap and god. He looks so defeated. His knuckles clean of blood but freshly scabbing. Nothing was fair. 

Richie sits down beside him. He wants to hold his hand but Eddie is holding his own. 

“I should have told you,” Eddie says. “I should have said something when I figured you out.” 

So he had known. Richie had worked that out in lieu of everything, but it was good to hear it confirmed aloud. 

“After the explosion, right?” 

Eddie nods. “I thought you were dead. So I figured– just to check, you know. I shouldn’t have but I did and I should’ve _told_ you.” 

“Wait, Eddie–” 

“I”m sorry I didn’t,” Eddie rushes. “I just couldn’t… I was scared for you to know. I can’t explain why really. And I thought, what if something happened to you because of it. And what if I’m not who you thought. What if–

“Eddie.” 

“And then you said those things about me. _Me_ me. Which wasn’t fair to you and I _still_ didn’t say anything because I–” 

_“Eddie,”_ Richie says, and Eddie stops to breathe, giving Richie a chance to speak. “I get it. I’m not mad. I mean I wish you didn’t feel that way, like you have to hide it or something, but I’m not _upset_ at you for it. And in retrospect it couldn’t really have been anyone else.” 

Eddie huffs a laugh. “I thought the same thing about you.” 

“Ha,” Richie says half-heartedly. “Anyway, you aren’t alone in this, man. Maybe this makes us a little more vulnerable now. But just think of it as a little extra work to strike that perfect work-life balance. And we’ll be extra _extra_ careful now looking out for each other.” 

“I don’t really think that’s possible,” Eddie says. “I’ve kind of hit a max on looking out for you.” 

“Me too!” Richie says. “So take it easy, man. I know you’ve got my back and I’ve got yours. As for the other stuff, I’m into both versions of you, alright? Not that they’re any different now that I know, but you don’t have to worry about being _perceived_ or whatever.” 

“That is the absolute worst way you could phrase that,” Eddie says, but Richie can hear the smile in his voice even if he can’t quite see it yet. 

“Sure, sure,” Richie says with a shrug. “And this Bowers guy…” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says tiredly. “He knows who I am.” 

“What’s up with that?” 

“I don’t really know. He hasn’t said anything.” 

“Okay. We’ll figure that out too.” And sure, maybe he was being a little optimistic about all this. But that was the only way he knew to not get sucked into the black hole of life. And it was what they both needed. And he couldn’t see the future like he sometimes wished he could, but he imagined it didn’t look as bleak as his nightmares sometimes threatened. In fact it looked alright, good even. They’d get there. They’d figure it out. 

“Okay,” Eddie says, and breathes out like he’s been holding his breath. 

Richie smiles, and then has a belated realization. “Oh my god. I told you I wanted to jump you to your literal face.” 

“Well, yeah.” 

“Christ,” Richie says, rubs the back of his neck and feels it feverish. “Not exactly the grand romantic gesture I was hoping for a confession.” 

“What like a flash mob?” 

“Definitely not, you would hate that. I’d go for something more subtle. Like uh. A love poem or something.” 

“Love?” 

“Yeah, did I not– are we still on the same page here?” 

“Uh.” 

“Should I just. I’m just gonna– I’m in love with you.” 

“Still?” 

“Fuck do you mean _still?”_

Eddie shrugs, his cheeks a ruddy, pleased pink. “I dunno. I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t anymore, after the shit I kept from you.” 

“You’re not joking,” Richie realizes. “Eddie, no. None of that changes anything. I’m still capital L in love with you.” 

“Oh.” 

“ _Oh?_ That’s it? I just bared my soul to you.” 

“Yeah, and I defied the laws of the universe for you.” 

“You do that all the time.” 

“Not like that and you know it.” 

“Yeah,” Richie says. “I know.” 

“And I love you too,” Eddie says, easy, like he’s known it forever. “I thought it would be obvious.” 

“Oh.” 

_“Oh?”_ Eddie says, mimicking a mimic. And then he kisses him, and Richie sees it coming, the way his dark hooded eyes catch on his lips and back up again to meet his gaze, and he meets him halfway but his stomach still bottoms out like he’s finally taken that one step Eddie always warned him of and toppled off the rooftop of a tall manhattan building. 

They fall backwards onto the bed, kissing still, Eddie’s hand working into his hair, Richie’s hands cradling his face. Until the angle starts to hurt a little, and Eddie sits up and swings his legs over Richie’s hips and straddles him. Richie pulls his legs up, brackets Eddie with his knees and rests his hands easy on either side of his hips. He smiles down at Richie, hair ruffled and lips pink. Richie’s glasses are askew but he can’t bother to fix them. 

Richie leans up to meet Eddie halfway again, their mouths slot together perfect, and Eddie pushes him back down onto the mattress with his weight, chest to chest and stomach to stomach, mouth open and bottom lip caught gently between teeth. 

Richie likes the way he fits so perfect between his thighs. The way their mouths make that wet clicking sound, the heat in his stomach, the sounds Eddie makes when tongue presses against tongue. Richie’s hands roam, from his neck and down, slipping into the sleeve of his tee shirt, fingers spread across the back of his shoulder and Eddie makes a hurt little sound and Richie pulls his hand away, cradling Eddie’s elbow instead. 

“Shit,” he says, and doesn’t mean for his voice to sound so wrecked. “Did you get hit there?” 

“It’s fine,” Eddie says impatiently, breathily, pushes harder with his weight and works one hand down until it is messing with the waistband of Richie’s sweats and teasing underneath. Richie gasps, pulls away with a sharp breath and a wet click. 

_“Woah_ there, cowboy. As much as I’d like to get my hands all over you too, maybe we should wait to whip out the big guy. You’re pretty fucking hurt right now.” 

_“Big guy?”_ Eddie says, and Richie laughs lovingly at his tone because he can’t quite place it between irritated or like, _aroused._ God, what a terrible word. But he really did sound it. 

“Anyway I said I was fine,” Eddie goes on, rocks his hips forwards, pushing Richie into the mattress. Richie hisses, his hands on the small of his back, Eddie working a love mark on his neck and Richie’s head falls backwards and– 

“Eddie,” he says. “Eddie eddie eddie.” 

“Richie richie richie,” Eddie says, meeting him with his mouth again. Richie sighs into it, his hands moving up from the small of his back, fingers tracing his spine, the fabric scrunching upwards as he makes his way to his shoulder blades. 

“We’ve got time,” Richie says. “No rush, alright? I love you.” 

Eddie sighs, smiles. Richie kisses him open-mouthed, nudges him onto his side and leans over him. Eddie looks and looks, dark eyes and long lashes. Richie’s ribs are too small for the way his heart swells in his chest. “What?” Eddie says, teasing. 

“You’re really beautiful,” Richie says. Eddie smiles bigger, leans up to kiss him hard. “And obviously really tired,” Richie says against his lips, and mourns the loss when Eddie flops back down. 

“I’m not tired.” 

“Eddie, baby. Your eyes get all soulful when you haven’t slept. And here,” he says, presses a thumb to the thin purple skin beneath one eye and kisses him on that same cheekbone. 

Eddie places a finger to his mouth. “And here.” 

Richie indulges him. “Sure, there too.” 

When he pulls away Eddie yawns. He must not mean to, because he fights it off valiantly but ends up making a ridiculous contorted expression. And maybe he knows he is far too exhausted to be of much help on the streets tonight. Maybe he is too warm to leave Richie’s bed. Richie wants to tell him it wasn’t selfish to rest. Tell himself the same. They could be normal young people in love, for just a little while, and that was okay. 

They kiss a little longer, languid and a little messy, and then Eddie falls asleep with his head tucked beneath Richie’s chin. And Richie takes a little longer but only because he is thinking about how something in the air was changing, that something was coming and it felt inevitable, but right now Eddie was in his arms and he loved him back and they would figure it out. 

He closes his eyes and sleeps. 

–

Eddie has a really fucking trippy dream. 

He is buoyed, weightless in water. He cannot spot the surface above him or the bottom below, but light streaks through in perfect golden-blue lines. His eyes are open but do not sting and see clearly. 

In front of him floats a sea turtle but small – the size of his hand. It peers at him with black orb eyes, hard beak open as though to speak and then closed again. Eddie tilts his head to the side and peers back with identical scrutiny. 

When the turtle speaks it is with its beak shut and a voice he knows. 

_Hello, Edward._

“Maturin?” 

_Yes._

“Where have you been?” 

_Dead._

“Oh,” Eddie says. He had genuinely forgotten. “Right.” 

_I suppose you must think this a dream._

“Isn’t it?” 

_Perhaps. I planned to deliver this news before passing but this is the best I can do for now._

“What are you talking about?” 

_You are ready now. All of you._

“For what?” 

His beak opens for the first time since he has spoken. And there is the sound of something ringing. Eddie jerks away as if struck, his body slow to fall backwards as bodies are slow to move in water. His hand reaches for Maturin, floating belly upwards now as though he were dead yet again. He almost reaches and then he blinks the salt out of his eyes and he is instead holding his phone. 

An arm flops onto his bare chest. Richie mumbles something sleepy and buries his face into his side. Eddie hits accept call and puts the phone to his ear. 

“Ben?” 

“Eddie, baby. What’s going on?” His voice is muffled against Eddie. Eddie puts a hand in Richie’s hair to quiet him. 

_“Was that Richie?”_ Ben says on the other end. 

“Yeah, I uh, stayed over last night,” Eddie says. His voice croaks. He thinks he can taste salt in his mouth. 

_“Oh, good!”_ Ben sounds genuinely cheerful about it. Eddie’s mouth twitches. He would explain later. Maybe. 

“Erm, you alright?” They’d seemed fine when Eddie checked up yesterday, but maybe Ben had changed his mind. 

_“Oh,”_ Ben says, as though he is just again remembering why he called. _“Right. I’m with Bev right now and I uh. I think you guys should get over here.”_

“Are you okay?” 

_“Yes?”_

“Your inflection there is kind of concerning.” 

“What’s happening?” Richie says, sleepy still but sounding more alert now. 

_“I’m fine!” Ben says. “We’re all fine. Bev is on fire is all.”_

“What?!” Eddie squeeks. “Put her out!” 

“Eddie,” Richie says. “ _What_ is going on?” 

_“Not like that,”_ Ben is reassuring. “ _She’s fine, I mean. Just uh. Emitting fire. She says hi by the way. I’ve got the extinguisher in case it gets too much again. Anyway can you get over here?”_

Eddie blinks and holds out his phone in front of him. The call time clocks at less than a minute. He was not still dreaming. He puts it back to his ear. Richie stares up at him and Eddie musters up a smile that probably does more harm than good, given the way Richie contorts his face and squeezes his arm. 

“We’re on our way.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Richie: super senses! he's hypersensitive to sound, smell, touch (within his own control after a lot of practice). also skilled in hand-to-hand combat. he's alert, observant, vigilant, usually goes into off mode when he's not out and about on the streets. 
> 
> Eddie: object manipulation! once in contact with a material he can shape it into anything he likes (limited only to his imagination). thinks this ability is limited to inanimate, nonorganic material until the Richie incident. also skilled in hand-to-hand combat but usually he is using his crafted weapons
> 
> i lurk on the outskirts of this fandom bc irrational Fear but i'd love to [chat!](https://twitter.com/freidegg)
> 
> tysm for reading xoxo gossip squirrel


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